A Legend of Dead Man’s Lake. “Dead Man’s Lake is a lonely sheet of water lying in a desolate region of the Indian Peninsula, between Lake Huron and Georgian Bay. It is situated in a forest of dead pines and hemlocks, blighted by bush fires long before the memory of any living man, and this adds materially to the desolation of an already dreary region of swamp and rock. The following legend is based on tradition, and the Indians to this day believe that the body of the murdered chief lies with upturned face at the bottom of the lake.”—Anon. I. Sad vale of death that moaneth dreary,
As if weighed ’neath a burden of care,
Even the sun shines cold, and his beams wax weary
In thy vacant shadowless air;
And the winds o’er the breast of thy lone lake sweeping,
Bear echoes from the tomb,
And thy desolate pines their death-watch keeping,
Ever whisper this tale of gloom:
II. Long years ago, (so long that in telling,
A weary tale ’twould make)
An aged chief with his tribe was dwelling
On the shore of this desolate lake.
But life then bloomed here, and in beauty tender
The wild-flowers lifted their eyes,
Till it gleamed like a vale of magic splendor
Just fallen from the sunset skies.
III. Here Wenonda dwelt in this vale of water,
Till the Spirit-voice should call,
And with him Alissa his dusky daughter—
Loveliest of maidens all.
And many a chieftain fain had woo’d her,—
From distant lands they came—
But in vain they sought, for none who viewed her
The light of her smile could claim.
IV. None, none—save a kinsman long since cherished,
In life’s bright morning scene,—
Now all but the memory had perished
Of what they once had been.
But Alissa oft in silence pondered
O’er the voice that spoke her fate,
And Oneydo where’er his footsteps wandered,
Bore a heart half love—half hate.
V. For a Spirit-voice had come with its warning—
With words that deeply warn,—
“From the distant land of the rich-robed morning,
From the clime where the sun is born,
A chieftain shall come to this vale of water,
In a chieftain’s state and pride,
To woo Wenonda’s lovely daughter,
And bear her away as his bride.”
VI. Then sinking low, the voice grew dimmer
That fell on Wenonda’s ear
Till it blent with the breeze and the wan star’s shimmer
When the midnight hour grew near.
And the chieftain forgot that warning never,
And the maid and the lover knew
That all was o’er—yet in silence ever
Each heart to the other beat true.
VII.
VIII. Now, the waiting long and the anguish ended,
Came Oneydo o’er the tide,
And ere two moon’s again ascended
Claimed Alissa as his bride.—
Then each day sped on, as an angel golden
Had passed with beaming eyes,
While yet in whose rich-dyed robes are holden
The airs of paradise!
IX. At length from the land of ocean currents,
Where mists were born of old,
From beyond the twin streams’[D] mighty torrents,
Came a stranger chieftain bold.
Of giant form, and with dark eye glancing,
And visage grim and sere,—
The somber plumes o’er his dun brow dancing,
Dropped shadows boding fear.
X. To Oneydo he came as some dreaded token,
For which naught can win surcease;
Few deeds were done, few words were spoken,—
They smoked the pipe of peace.
But over that vale passed an unseen power
Three times with the setting sun,—
Then by that still lake at the midnight hour,
A murderous deed was done.
XI. Uprose the sun in heaven’s vault slowly—
All hid in mist, full soon
The stars shrank back, and, sweeping lowly,
Low dipped the horned moon.
But Alissa was gone—through the vale they sought her,
And the stranger chief was gone;—
False, false was the heart of Wenonda’s daughter—
Both fled with the breaking dawn.
XII. And the still, broad lake its secret keeping,
Lay hushed and mute for aye;
But in its depths in silence sleeping
Oneydo lowly lay.
None knew—but War’s dark tempests lowered,
And broke with fiery mood,—
When the moon her light o’er the dim vale showered
Her beams were red as blood.
XIII. Long waged the war with frightful slaughter,
Long and dismal was its reign,
Till dyed with blood was the vale of water,
And many a chief was slain.
Still Hatred reigned—her fury never
Abated till, came the day
When Wenonda’s tribe had passed forever
From the haunts of men away.
XIV. Now ages have passed, and the vale lies lonely—
Nor sign of life is there,
And the blasted pines are standing only
In the cold and lifeless air.
Yet oft when the midnight tempests lower
A phantom cloud low swings,
Then is heard o’er the Lake at that solemn hour
The flap of invisible wings.
XV. The deer to his night-bound haunts, unheeding,
Should he pass by this desolate Lake,
But quickens his pace, and faster speeding
His phantom-flight doth take.
And the wild geese southward or northward hying,
If they pass o’er this vale in their flight,
Turn their course, till higher and higher flying,
They are lost to the searching sight.
XVI. Well the red man knows the dismal story—
Knows where Oneydo lies;
He hath seen his corse all pale and gory
Looking helplessly up to the skies;
And to burning rage forever fated,
He is doomed to endless woe;
For there must he lie till Vengeance is sated,
Ere rest his spirit can know.
The Vigil.[E]
(A Romaunt of the late Rebellion in the U.S.A.) I. The Southern sun with his deep flood of light
Was slowly sinking, and the moated tide
Hung heavy o’er the dusky brow of night.
Along the gilded west rose far and wide
A range of hills; a vale on either side
Where rich magnolias grew, stretched far adown;
And in this hollow vale might be descried,
Where long the rose and hyacinth hath blown,
A modest cabin’s roof with woodbine overgrown.
II. Within this cabin, on a summer’s eve,
Upon a couch a wounded soldier lay;
Propped up beside a window to relieve
His aching brow, he watched the dying day.
Anon his eyes would follow far away
The burnished dove disport on gilded wing,
Then nearer the gay oriole swoop at play;
And heard the while the merry mock-bird sing,
Till Slumber o’er his brow her leaden chain would fling.
III. Then in fond dreams his Fancy oft would trace
His Northern home beside the winding stream,
A mother’s fervent kiss and long embrace,
A sister’s streaming tears, or the mild beam
Of fairer eyes, where love-lit thoughts would seem
To melt in tears. Oh, pictured vision bright!
Too soon to fade,—gone with the fleeting dream,
Like shooting stars that fade away in night,
And leave no trace behind to mark their sudden flight.
IV. Oft would he start in wild delirium,
And grasp with frenzied hand the fancied blade,
As if he heard the regimental drum
Sounding to arms; for dire Fever preyed
Upon his young life’s blood, and oft betrayed
That Death with dragon mouth stood yawning nigh,
Eager to seize his prey, nor would be stayed
By Art’s firm hand or Pity’s tear-dewed eye,
From his dread course, fell Demon of eternity.
V. And as the fitful dream of parting life
Thus came and went, there watched beside
The dying soldier’s couch of pain and strife
A gentle maid. In eager haste she tried,
As oft would rise and ebb life’s surging tide,
To check the pulse, to soothe the heart’s distress,
To minister the potion that would hide
Anguish and pain in deep forgetfulness;—
Irene performed the while such task of tenderness.
VI. Hers was an aspect singularly mild,
With radiant brow deep-arched, obscurely clear,
And dark affrayed eyes, half-meek, half-wild,
That told the fount of pity welling near.
Twice gazed you on that face ere ’twould appear
That Time had all too early cast his pall
O’er the bright blooms that Youth and Beauty wear;
For mingled there hope, grief, doubt, fear, and all
That turn the human heart to tenderness—or gall.
VII. The day declined, night’s dusky mantle fell,
And evening’s hush lay lightly o’er the vale;
Still watched Irene like hermit in his cell.
The bright moon rose, and twilight ’gan to fail
As the soft beams fell gently o’er the dale;
And still she watched with fixed, inquiring view
Upon the soldier’s face upturned and pale,—
Alike his name, his lot, his fate, none knew,
Save by the badge he wore,—the Northern coat of blue.
VIII. Scarce yestermorn it was since he had come,
Languid and faint from wounds and bitter woe,
Unto the portals of that Southern home,
Which, like the Southern heart, can ne’er forego
The sight of wretchedness, even in a foe,
A mortal foe, when hapless Pity calls
The generous heart unconsciously to show
The claims of mercy ere the mandate falls,
Or soothe the shriveled heart that suffering woe enthralls.
IX. Still watched Irene; the bright moon higher rose,
And swung above the vale beneath a cloud.
“How like the orb of hope that rising glows
Fair, ’neath some sullen gloom that would enshroud
All that is bright in life!” Thus, half aloud,
The maiden spoke; then silence fell again,
And the soft light gleamed o’er her head, as bowed
She ’neath that aching, sinking sense of pain,
When hope hath sunk from view, and life itself is vain.
X. Yet not for him unconscious slumbering there
The maiden mourned; far, far her thoughts were sped
With one who late had gone albeit to share
A soldier’s lot, fame—or a grave instead;
Perchance ’twere both, his fate was still unread.
’Tis thus suspense ill brooks the heart’s control:
She turned unto the casement half in dread,
As if her thoughts the night-winds could condole;
Her smothered words bespeak the anguish of her soul.
XI. “O thou pale moon, arrayed in sombre hues,
Thou lookest o’er the earth in awe sublime,
Like some sad, pitying spirit when it views
The mortal clod that linked it once to time.
Oh, tell me, for ’tis said that in thy clime
Fate’s mystic scroll is seen for e’er unrolled,
Tell me he lives. Ah, no!—I hear the chime
That speaks the death-note of the brave and bold;
Let fate take back her scroll, the tale must not be told.”
XII. Time measures woe; her reign he oft makes brief,
Oft lights the smile that decks the shining tear,
When Hope would fling aside the web of grief,
And over all would in full view appear.
’Twas thus Irene could dash aside all fear,
Could see returning from the unequal strife
Her best beloved, the beauteous South so dear
To both triumphant still, and honors rife
Bestrewn along the path to deck their future life.
XIII. Away delusive dream!—the soldier wakes,
And round him casts a strange, bewildered eye,
Pale o’er his couch the struggling moonlight breaks;
Irene, half-startled, checks the smothering sigh,
Looks strangely round, nor scarce can wonder why
Slumber hath flown. Then turns she most in fright
To where the scarce-seen lamp is smouldering by,—
Flushed o’er the room a tide of yellow light,
As fled the darkened shades back to the wings of night.
XIV. The soldier spoke, his accents feebly fell,
Irene drew near to catch what he might say.
“I have short time for what I fain would tell,”
He thus began, “this tenement of clay
Must soon dissolve—flit life and light away.
It is a tale to fright thy timid ear,
And yet a burden on my soul doth weigh,
That will not let it part. Nay, do not fear;
Though shadows cloud my mind, soon light will reappear.”
XV. “Southward we turned.” He paused; then soon began,
“But three days since, albeit it may be more,
By chance we faced the foe, I slew a man;—
Oh, start not, gentle maid,—’twill soon be o’er.
He stood a sentry at the post which bore
His trust. We took the army by surprise;
’Twas night, and few there were; perchance three-score
Prisoners were made. Nay, hide not thus thine eyes;
Remorse can rend a heart that Pity would despise.
XVI. “The skirmish o’er, by chance I found my way
To where the sentry fell, thinking ’twere best
If yet he lived. I had not meant to slay—
He turned on me—my sword pierced through his breast.
Oh! even at times a soldier’s heart’s oppressed
With pity, too. I saw him writhing still
In agony. The gaping wound undressed
Was pouring out his life. My heart grows chill
Even yet; O God! I thought how slight a thing can kill.
XVII. “I stooped beside and strove to staunch the wound.
‘’Tis vain,’ he said, ‘a trust I’ll give to thee.’
He bade me loose a packet which was bound
Beneath his cloak. ‘I charge thee take,’ said he,
‘This token to the one who gave it me;
Her picture it contains. Tell her I died
While at the post of duty. Thou mayest see
Her name within.’ He turned upon his side,
And slowly ebbed away life’s dim-receding tide.
XVIII. “I sought a furlough then, but ere ’twas given
Occasion thrust a battle in my way.
We fought, I know not how, but far were driven;
I, wounded, fell; then fled from me the ray
That reason beams. I knew no more till day
Dawned on me here; and now I hear the calling
Of voices strange; and moans, death-dying, lay
Their weight upon my soul, as deeply palling
The tired senses, come clogged shadows thickly falling.
XIX. “Still let me cling to life; though hope be fled,
That mission I would fill for him whose hand
Gave me the charge; but even that hope is dead,
And from the glass of time the sliding sand
Is almost run. Oh, thou mayest understand
And yet fulfil my unavailing vow.
While yet I breathe on life’s uncertain strand,
To thee I give the sacred trust. Even now
Death’s touch is at my heart, his chill is on my brow.”
XX. The faltering voice Irene no longer heard.
She saw the picture she had given to him
Her heart most yearned to reach. Then all appeared
Dark and confused; the while her senses swim,
The light burns blue, and waning visions dim
Flit o’er her mind; and voices distant seem
Like troubled waters moaning, phantoms grim,
Shades horrible; then reason’s flickering beam
Lit up—all, all as ’twere a wild, distempered dream.
XXI. Oh! there are moments of our life a part,
When the soul’s passion is too vast, too deep
For Sorrow’s shafts to pierce the quivering heart;
Feeling is numbed in a half-conscious sleep,
In aching weariness the senses steep,
And a cold chill like death-breath freezes o’er
The fount of tears, and will not let one weep.
Then pent within the spirit’s inmost core
The fire burns but consumes not, burning evermore.
XXII. Reason returns again, but ever gone
Are hope and happiness,—withered the bloom,
The last flower plucked, but still the stalk lives on,
A living death; the lone sepulchral tomb
Less hopeless is.—Thus fell the blasting doom
Upon Irene. Rayless the gathering night
Which settled o’er her soul engulfed in gloom:
She turned away like one whose vacant sight
All things can dimly see, yet naught can see aright.
XXIII. Full well she knew the hand that dealt her doom
Lay there outstretched in pleading helplessness;
Should she withhold the potion, death would come
Outreaching time, dark thoughts; but who could guess
If e’er they broke upon her soul’s distress?
The night was long, but longer still even then
The night that wrapped her life. Deep shades depress
Her very thoughts in sighs. Nor tongue, nor pen,
Alas! hath Grief to tell that tale of woe again.
XXIV. Long, long the night; its hours crept slowly by,
Each burdened by the weary weight of years;—
The soldier slept, but o’er the closing eye
Of mortal life fell that deep gloom which wears
The mask of death in Life’s dim vale of tears:
He slept; but ere the Dawn in mantle gray,
Who in the east her purple dome uprears
Each morn, had brought to man another day,
Cold in the embrace of death the soldier slept for aye.
XXV. All through the long, long night Irene alone
Her vigil kept, and oft she strove in vain,
Ere the slow-ebbing tide of life had gone,
With gentle touch to chase away dull Pain
Which o’er the soldier’s brow his heavy chain
Had thrown. But, oh! it seemed as though
The weight of three-score years of Sorrow’s reign
Had fallen upon her life;—that night of woe,
Had turned her raven hair white as the wintry snow!
A Fable in Two Cantos. PRELUDE. LIFE is a riddle, deep, majestic, grand,
For all to solve, but few to understand;
’Tis a strange world, some say with stoic bliss,
And straightway vow this globe hath gone amiss;
While some presume and some soliloquise,
“There’s less in wisdom than in seeming wise;”
“Silence is golden,” spake of old the sage,
The rule holds good in our distempered age;
Then silence keep and learn from meaner things,
From which full many a goodly lesson springs.
Grasp not the shadow that first meets your eyes,
For somewhere near the substance always lies;
A simple story serves to tell the fate
Of many a brain-dashed, vaunting shallow pate.
CANTO I. A frog dwelt once upon a time
Far up within the northern clime,
’Twas pleasant sure, when Summer threw
O’er wood and lake and mountain blue,
Her fairy mantle; then the frog,
Exulting loud in many a bog,
Sang siren songs in brake and bush,
Such as would fairly put to blush,
Or fill, good faith, with envious rage
The modern artist of the stage;
And well he might, the pesky elf
Could even understand himself;
And as his voice still louder rang,
He understood the words he sang;
He sang, and leaping sang so clear,
The very breezes paused to hear;
He sang till even the Echoes tired,
To bear his songs no more aspired.
But why dilate upon this song,
Or why a tedious tale prolong?
When Winter raised his elfin wand,
The frog retired to his pond;
His voice was hushed, the winds that kissed
The placid lake his ditties missed,
Straight in a tempest rage they flew,
And colder, wilder, louder blew,
Till Summer could no more endure,
And fled to southern climes secure.
But when cold Winter, tired grown,
Would drop his wand a moment down,
That self-same instant you might hear
The frog’s shrill voice pipe loud and clear.
The Winds delighted sank again,
And gently swept the barren plain;
And Summer, stirred by some strange force,
Straight to the Northland took her course.
CANTO II. But once upon a certain time,
Ere Winter visited that clime,
Two idle geese were babbling by,
And little recked the frog was nigh.
They talked of climes so far away,
Where Summer holds eternal sway.
They talked of pearly skies serene,
Of woods forever robed in green,
Of sunny ponds and fairy bogs,—
The paradise of singing frogs.
Then talked they of their journey thither,
And prayed that they might have fair weather.
The frog all meekly sat the while,
Then deigned to ask with winning smile,
While visions of those tempting skies
Floated before his dazzled eyes:
“Where is that land, most potent bird?
Of it, good faith, I’ve never heard.
Pray, let me follow, when once more
You bend your course to that fair shore
Where Winter never dare intrude
To cast his spell of solitude.”
At this the geese laughed loud and long,
A hissing laugh that checked the song
The frog had formed deep in his throat,—
That song died in one gurgling note.
And then the elder of the birds
Addressed the frog the following words:
“Thou silly elf, pray understand
’Tis many a league unto that land,
And should’st thou e’er presume to go
By single jumps and hops so slow,
Why, sure old age would overtake
Thee ere thou’d reach the fairy brake.”
At this the frog at once began:
“I’ve hit upon a novel plan.
We’ll pluck some grass from yonder slope,
And firmly twist it in a rope,
’Twill do, I think, with single fold,
Then at each end you may take hold,
And I will grasp the middle tight,
A goose at both my left and right,
We’ll cleave the upper air so light.”
The frog scarce finished ere ’twould seem
The geese consented to the scheme.
They both affirmed with one accord
Such wisdom they had never heard;
Fitting the action to the word,
They soon were sailing through the skies,
Bound for the southern paradise.
The frog swung on the grassy rope,
And did not deign his mouth to ope.
They travelled over many a rood
Of bush and brake and solitude.
At length a farmer, half amazed,
Spied them aloft in mid-air raised,
And much he wondered as he gazed,
And loud the wise device he praised,
And asked whose wisdom ’twas had planned
The wondrous scheme his vision scanned.
The frog, in whose own estimation,
Centred the wisdom of creation,
Could not the rustic’s praise pass by,
Opened his mouth and shouted “I!”—
Scarce had he risked his mouth to ope,
When slipped his jaws from off the rope,
And, like an arrow from a bow,
He dashed upon the rocks below.
Thus died the frog—was ever fate so dread?
And to the realm of shades his spirit sped.
MORAL. All ye who read, whatever be your state,
Bear well in mind the frog’s unhappy fate.
How wise you deem yourself, how great a seer,
’Tis vain to boast, the world cares not to hear.
There’s danger oft in speech, be well aware—
The cloak of wisdom is not hard to bear.
Impromptu.
(Suggested on seeing a vain lady gazing at herself in a mirror.) GAZE fondly on thy mirrored face,
And there thine imaged beauty trace;
But if, perchance by magic art,
That mirror could portray thy heart,
Down to the dust the glass thou’dst fling,
That could portray so vile a thing!
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